Five Stages of Loss and Grief
by isumi 'kivic
Summary: There are five stages of loss and grief. HOMRA, from the moment of Totsuka's death. Written before episode six was out. HOMRA-centric, canon character death.


Title: Five Stages of Loss and Grief

Fandom: [K] Project Anime

Characters/Pairing: HOMRA-centric. Squint for, uhh, Dewa/Chitose and Fujishima/Eric.

Disclaimer: [K] belongs to GoRA and GoHands, I owe none and produce no money out of this.

Warnings: unbeta-ed, grammar errors ahoy, major character death. This was written way long before episode five was even out, so I made up the circumstances in which HOMRA members found Totsuka's body. ALSO I TRIED TO MAKE IT UNDER 2000 WORDS I SWEAR. I failed.

A/N: Because I was thinking, what was HOMRA's reaction like when they found out that Totsuka's dead. And because I'm still grieving for Totsuka myself.

For rizuka, because she put up with me when I cried over Totsuka on the phone.

**A [K] Project Fanfiction**

_Five Stages of Loss and Grief_

They said there are five stages of loss and grief.

The first is **denial**.

-o0o-

There is an inexplicable fear in Anna's voice when she comes down to the bar that night.

"Mikoto," she says, tugging on Mikoto's shirt the way she always does. It is the trepidation in her voice that makes Izumo turns his attention to her, too, despite the speck of dust he spies lingering on the corner of his bar. Mikoto bends down a little to see her properly, and for a second, her gaze flickers to where Izumo stands.

Izumo frowns. "Anna-chan, what is it?"

She's raises her hands, opening her palms to show them the red marbles. Under the dim light of the bar, they glimmer with a peculiar shine that Izumo has long associated with Anna's red marbles; transparent red and pretty. But her hands are shaking hard, betraying the lack of expression on her face, and the marbles make soft tinkling noises as they knock against each other in Anna's trembling palms.

Ever so slightly, Mikoto's eyes narrow. He covers Anna's small hands with his own broad ones, hiding the marbles from view. Anna swallows, looking more like a little girl than Izumo has ever seen her, visibly trying to gather herself together but failing miserably at that.

"My power." She murmurs. "It's—strange. I think there's something wrong with it—I can't sense him. I can't—find him."

The bar is full that night—every single member of HOMRA hanging out in it, loud and boisterous and violent and familiar all at once. Laughter and curses mix into one, creating a bubble of warmth that has been part of Izumo's life for years now. Every single member of HOMRA is in. Every single one.

Except there's an apparent lack of camera and an ever-present soft smile.

Mikoto's hands tighten around Anna's, and Izumo finds himself leaning forward, feeling something in his stomach sinks. "Try again, Anna-chan." He says, for the first time in his life surprised to hear his own voice thick with both fear and desperation. "Maybe you weren't concentrating enough. Should I tell the others to quiet down?"

"Yes," Anna answers quietly, but there's just enough _wrong_ in her voice to tell Izumo that the result is going to be the same. But that's just—no. Anna is still too young, after all, and for all her accuracy all these times, she might be wrong this time. She just needs to concentrate more, that's it. So Izumo lobs a spoon towards Yata, hitting him right on the head. He pastes a deadpan face when Yata turns in irritation, and says simply, "Quiet. Anna-chan has to concentrate."

"What—" Yata grumbles, but he falls silent when Anna starts spreading out her map, red marbles tumbling down from her hands in jerky movements. She concentrates as the marbles roll around, and around, and around.

Around. Searching, seeking.

They never stop.

"Focus, Anna-chan," Izumo says, hating himself for saying that because he knows Anna has never been so focused like this before. But Tatara's presence should be easy to find—that's what Anna said a long time ago. It's the easiest, Anna had said, because Tatara's presence is soft and gentle and _kind_, even more so than anybody else.

The marbles still roll around.

"King," that's Chitose, stepping closer. "Should we go and look for Totsuka-san?"

Mikoto's eyes find Izumo's, holding them for a moment, and Izumo feels a heavy weight settles in his chest. This is wrong. This is wrong. Anna will find Tatara, or Mikoto will fix whatever it is that is wrong with Anna's power. Tatara is fine—he's always been, even though he doesn't fight. There's no reason he isn't fine. He's just gone out to film some nighttime view, nothing different than usual, this is all just baseless panic.

But Mikoto turns away from him, and murmurs, "Take Fujishima and Akagi."

"Okay."

"Mikoto," Anna says, looking up, and Izumo is taken aback to see the emotion flashing in her eyes. Desperation. Denial. "Mikoto, my power. It doesn't work." She turns back to the map, eyebrows furrowing, losing her composure bit by bit. "Why doesn't it work?"

It feels like years later when Chitose finally bursts in back into the bar, pale and frightened like he's just seen Yubikiri again, after so long. Izumo kind of wants to laugh, except behind him, Shouhei looks around wildly, the camera in his hand looks familiar and yet odd, given the wrecked state it is in. Then Fujishima comes in, and there he is. There's Tatara, draped on his back, face hidden on Fujishima's shoulder. But there's too much red all over—on Chitose's hands, on Shouhei's chest, on the broken camera, and Fujishima looks like he's just bathed in a pool of blood.

Tatara is a combination of red and white.

"Ambulance," Izumo says, preservation instinct taking over as he quickly takes out the first aid box he keeps under the counter. Mikoto's moving, taking Tatara's body away from Fujishima, gently lowering him down on the floor while Anna shuffles forward between him and Fujishima, hands already reaching forward to check on the gaping wound on Tatara's chest.

"Ambulance's coming," Yata yells at no one and everyone. Izumo kneels next to Mikoto, gaze sweeping Tatara's form, feeling a little of the weight in his chest taken away by Yata's words. Ambulance is coming. Tatara will be alright. Professionals are going to take care of him. As long as they can prevent further bleeding, it'll be alright. Staunch the blood—Izumo can do that. He's done that a couple of times. Tatara will be fine.

Even so, he knows. He knows. Because the blood isn't flowing out anymore, not like it should with a pulse behind it. He knows. He knows. Everything reeks of blood, the stench foul and dark, spelling out a final farewell that is too sudden, too abrupt, too _wrong_.

But Tatara should be alright. In no time, he's going to open his eyes and smile at the world. Because that's what Tatara does.

So Izumo puts his hands on Tatara's chest and presses down hard.

His action doesn't staunch the flowing blood. It has already stopped.

-o0o-

When **denial** wears off, comes the second stage of loss and grief.

It is **anger**.

-o0o-

Everything burns.

It's a slow burn, Misaki thinks. Like starting a bonfire back when he was still in school. The flames kindle, bit by bit, devouring the dry woods and lumbers, growing bigger and bigger, and then it burns. It burns everything that it touches, scorching hot and painful, and sometimes Misaki thinks the fire is going to consume even him, if he isn't careful.

But he doesn't want to be careful. Not anymore.

He goes out to a mafia hideout, taking Kamamoto and Bandou with him, and sets everything on fire. It burns—white hot, a searing sensation on his skin, even if the flames isn't supposed to hurt him. But it isn't enough, because something inside him still burns; licking up his throat and tightening his chest. He hasn't felt like this for years. Not since the betrayal of that particular traitor siding with the Blue Clan now.

A bald man in his mid-thirties falls on his back, staggering away from him. Misaki turns to him, eyes narrowed, breathing harsh. The man looks up in terror, wide-eyed like a deer cornered by a pack of wolves. A wail rings throughout the building, followed by Kamamoto's shouts, but Misaki doesn't even turn, doesn't even blink. He raises a hand and grabs the man by his lapels, jerking him forward violently.

"Did you guys kill him?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" The man stammers out, eyes wild and body trembling like a leaf. Misaki shakes him forcefully, letting the red aura burns the man's arm, but the shriek he lets out doesn't even satisfy him. If anything, the flames inside his chest burns stronger. "I didn't kill anyone!"

"Fuck you." Misaki hisses, feels like his body is going to explode with anger. "Who killed him?!"

"I don't know—ughh!" the man's babble cuts off when Misaki throws him onto the floor. He steps on the man's chest, listening to the cruel crack of ribs as he grounds his foot onto the chest. It's not enough. Never enough. Everything still burns, and it's hot—he feels like he's getting drunk, drowning in both fury and madness, and nothing will ever be enough to cease the fire burning in his chest.

"He's a good person." Misaki grits out. "He never fights. He doesn't fucking fight. And yet he's killed." He grounds his heel harder, and the man is positively bawling now. "Hey, you're their goddamn leader. Aren't you? You're supposed to be fucking smart. Why don't you tell me why he's killed, shitface?"

"I—I don't know—" the man shakes his head, tears and snot streaking across his face. "I don't know what you're talking about, I swear—"

"You piece of shit." Misaki spits out. "All he did was smile. He just fucking smiled at everything and filmed them. Why the fuck would someone want to kill him?" He cuts off, chest tightening with too much emotion, and it feels like he's second away from exploding. "That's just. Fucking unfair."

The man wailed. "I didn't—I swear, it's not me!"

"This world," Misaki raises his fist, watches it turns red. "This world is fucked up. It should be you. Not him." There's the sound of cracking ribs again, under his foot, but it doesn't delight him like it usually does. It isn't enough. "A good person like Totsuka-san should live for a thousand fucking years."

"No—no I didn't do it, please—spare me—"

Misaki snorts out a laugh, shoulders shaking.

"If you happen to meet god, shitface, tell him that he's fucked up."

With a single flick of his hand, the body beneath his foot dissolves into a blazing inferno. He watches, angry and livid and dizzy with power, and everything burns hot.

Nothing left.

No blood. No ash. No bone.

And yet everything still burns.

-o0o-

The **anger** will dissipate, albeit slowly. One can't stay mad forever. It's exhausting.

But then comes the third stage, when one would drown in too many _if_s, too many _I should've_s and I_ could've_s.

One will try **bargaining**.

-o0o-

"If only we got there sooner," Chitose slurs into Dewa's neck. "If only we found him sooner."

Mikoto watches as Dewa tries to slide off Chitose's form, despite the fact that the blond is pretty much draped across his lap. The ice in his glass clinks daintily as Mikoto raises it to his lips, closing his eyes to enjoy the strong mix of the brown liquid Izumo's given to him five minutes ago.

"Man, you reek of alcohol," Dewa complains half-heartedly. Chitose groans, peeling himself off Dewa only to slide down onto the floor, face bright red with intoxication. He waves a hand, obviously trying to hit Dewa on the head, but failing miserably. Dewa sighs, bending down to pick his friend off the floor.

"Kusanagi-san," he calls out. "We're going home."

"Yeah, sure. Take care."

"You're not listeniiiiiing—" Chitose hiccups, limbs flailing as Dewa straightens him up. "Dewa, you don't—don't get it—you don't—if we'd gotten there sooner, I could've—"

Dewa bops him on the head, taking half of Chitose's weight onto himself as he helps him walk. "Shut the fuck up."

Chitose pulls a face. "Fuck off—" and he pushes Dewa away, only to staggers backwards, losing his balance, and falls down on Mikoto's feet, sprawled on the floor.

Mikoto looks down blankly. Chitose meets his gaze, and he grins. "Kiiiiiiing—"

"Ah—" Dewa splutters. "King, sorry! I'm so sorry, he pushed me, this punk-!"

Chitose slowly pulls himself up into s sitting position. "Hnnn. Hnn—we're sorry—King—" and his face twists up, like Mikoto has just casted him away from HOMRA, and just like that, Mikoto can see something inside Chitose breaks. "We're—sorry…"

Dewa kneels before Chitose, but Chitose's hand rises to cover his eyes, and he pauses.

A hiccup, and a sob.

"Should've been—faster—" each word sounds like a plea, dragged out in painful breaths. "Could've—saved him—if only—" Chitose breaks off, panting like he couldn't get enough oxygen into his lungs. "If only we got to him sooner—"

Mikoto places his glass back onto the counter and clasps a hand on Chitose's shoulder.

The young man looks up, surprised, and then breaks down completely.

Mikoto nods to Dewa, who gathers Chitose into his arms and stands up, straightening the both of them. They leave with Chitose's trail of _if only_s, closing the bar door behind them. Mikoto merely watches his subordinates' forms from the window, unblinking, until their shadows disappear.

The silence is deafening.

"I shouldn't have let him go out," Izumo murmurs. The glass in his hand is flawlessly clean, mirroring his gaze, but Mikoto doesn't say anything.

On the corner of the bar, Anna breathes out, "if only I decided to trace him sooner."

Mikoto closes his eyes. He remembers Totsuka's smile, bright and content, remembers the camera. He remembers the knowing look Totsuka gives him, the gentle pat on his shoulder after a particular bad nightmare. He remembers—remembers—remembers—and Totsuka's voice reverberates in his ears: _King. King, don't look so lonely. Come down, King. Join us._

The loneliness of a King is something only another King would understand, but the persistence helps.

King. The one who holds power.

What good is power, if he can't protect the members of his clan?

If only, Mikoto thinks, he could exchange this power he holds with Totsuka's life, he would gladly do so.

-o0o-

But no **bargain** can bring the dead back.

Which is why the next stage of loss and grief is **depression**.

-o0o-

The projector on his side makes a soft whirring noise.

Eric can't find it in himself to be annoyed at it.

On the screen is Yata, beating up Bandou mercilessly while Kamamoto and Shouhei peering over from behind. Yata is yelling, as he always does, violent and harsh, and the picture shakes a little as Totsuka-san's chuckle drifts into the film. It rings clear and nice, weightless.

He catches himself and Fujishima just off the focus of the camera—his mouth stuffed up with bread as Fujishima pats him on the head. There's tenderness there, something Eric doesn't usually notice, and he wonders how Totsuka-san managed to capture it without even focusing on them. Yata's boisterous laughter reverberates as Bandou groans—it should make an amusing scene, but Eric doesn't want to smile.

"_Yata-chan, if you scratched that bar, you're going to be killed."_

Totsuka-san's voice is light. Eric can't ever remember himself sounding so light, like he hasn't had any burden in his life. But that's how Totsuka-san always sounded, and Eric had envied him a little, only for the feeling to change into one of respect after the whole him-trying-to-kill-Totsuka-san fiasco. Totsuka-san had been smiling, too, despite knowing that the knife in Eric's hand was intended to go through his heart.

Like the bullet had.

Eric closes his eyes. They burn, and something inside him is aching endlessly.

He's gone through nearly all the films, hoping to catch Totsuka-san's figure in one of them. It will be a great comfort, he thinks, because he misses Totsuka-san's smiles already, and seeing even just a glimpse of them in the films will no doubt raises everyone's morale. But as Kusanagi-san said before—all of them are in those films. Their memories, treasured and captured, as clear as the day the film was taken. All of them—the grand gestures, the tiniest looks, the shouts and small chuckles.

But Totsuka-san isn't there. Not in any one of them.

And how unfair is that, that the one who died first is the one whose memories are never recorded. How exactly does Totsuka-san expect them to remember him, Eric doesn't understand. But he doesn't want to forget—not a single smile, not a single laugh, not a single touch. He never wants to forget Totsuka-san. None of them do.

A finger flicks away a tear sliding down his cheek, and Eric opens his eyes in surprise.

"Fujishima."

"I thought you've watched them all." His friend comments, eyes focused on the screen. The camera has zoomed on Kusanagi-san and the King, crowding on a new mix of drink Kusanagi-san had come up with. The liquid gleams red. It reminds Eric not only of HOMRA's color now, but also of the blood Fujishima bathed in the night he brought Totsuka-san's body in.

The film rolls to an end. Fujishima doesn't move, but Eric does, taking off the film roll from the projector. He cradles it carefully, fingers running on the edges of the roll, wondering how many times Totsuka-san watched this. Did Totsuka-san ever watch his own films?

He holds the film roll close, pulling his knees up, curling up into a ball. He doesn't cry—he's past that stage, he doesn't cry over Totsuka-san anymore—just tucks his head down onto his knees and breathes in. There's a scent of metal on the film roll, and he wonders where it comes from.

A moment later, a weight settles down on his back. It's warm, reminding him of Totsuka-san's smiles. There's no Totsuka-san in these films; none of them are ever going to see his smiles again, what a loss. He shudders, grief weighing his whole being, and he doesn't feel like he can lift his head up again, much less straightening himself up to start looking for Totsuka-san's killer.

He hasn't felt such a loss since his parents died.

"We all miss him." Shouhei's voice sounds close to his ear. It is thick with emotions Eric doesn't want to try to identify. He leans back onto Shouhei's back—warm and safe, that's how HOMRA makes him feel, but he hasn't felt quite the same since Totsuka-san's gone—and puts a hand over his eyes. Silence falls for several moments, but then Fujishima says, "I told you to try and say 'help me'."

Eric breathes in sharply. His lips tremble, but the words sound steadier.

"Help me."

Another weight settles on his side, his nose catching Fujishima's scent.

"Help us, too."

The words are soft—too soft—and Eric knocks his head softly to Fujishima's, closing his eyes tightly.

-o0o-

The last stage is called **acceptance**.

But **acceptance** is a gift not afforded to everyone. Grief is a process seemingly endless; there's neither time limit nor a guidebook on how to deal with it. But it is real, tangible, because when someone loved by many leaves, they leave a hole nothing could ever fill.

There's still revenge for them.

So they run out, breaking things and chasing people, paint the whole country red if they can. Their revenge will be their tribute, for someone who keeps their memories safe, someone who keeps their memories alive, someone who remembers for them, when they forget.

**Acceptance** isn't something they could afford for now.

Later, later. Maybe never.

-o0ofinitoo0o0-


End file.
